


Foreground

by cartouche



Category: Blomsterfangen (1996), Hannibal (TV), Kavanagh QC
Genre: M/M, Why do I do this, anniversary fluff, but there arent, cat in a hat, grumpy cat without a hat, i could lie and tell you there are dinosaurs, i disgust myself, im going to get tooth rot at this rate, more kissing and cuddling and cute things, severe lack of cashew duck, slight warning for considered drug abuse, this one is just as angsty and fluffy as the last one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-27
Updated: 2014-10-27
Packaged: 2018-02-22 20:37:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2520983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cartouche/pseuds/cartouche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a dark alleyway, one of hundreds in this city, and he watches two men huddle together at one end, murmuring prices and passing back and forth money and white packets. He remembers the kiss Max pressed to the corner of his lips as they fell asleep last night, the way he looks at him likes he’s the sun, the way he smiles when Mikey comes home, a goofy puppy. He remembers the day they found Oscar, bedraggled and starved, in a trash can, and how the cat winds around his legs when he walks in the door. He remembers every laugh, every tear, every shitty BBC show with ice cream and duvets pulled around them. So he sighs and walks past the alleyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Foreground

**Author's Note:**

  * For [haanigram](https://archiveofourown.org/users/haanigram/gifts).



> Bre, I hate myself. 
> 
> I'm basically just posting this here because I'm a total slug who needs to remind myself I can actually write. My mojo has vanished, it's very sad.
> 
> I just realised how cheesy the ending is and I would like to apologise.

It’s been a shitty day. Or, more precisely, yet another shitty day in an unending stream of shitty days that make up his life. If there was some sort of curse on him he’d like to know, because it’s getting to the point where he’s going to slip, and this time, he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to get back up again.

Everything that could have gone wrong had. He’d been late for the bus, had slushy puddles thrown up by uncaring drivers soak his clothes and chill him to the bone. He’d been shouted at, twice by customers and three times by his manager, until all he’d wanted was to crawl into a small hole and cry. Not that that was possible. Somehow, they were behind on the rent _again_. He could only hope that his bad luck didn’t extend to ruining their landlords leniency.

The walk back to the apartment is cold, miserable and lonely. He passes a dark alleyway, one of hundreds in this city, watches two men huddle together at one end, murmuring prices and passing back and forth money and white packets.

The temptation is almost too great. He almost slips, takes his wages out of his pocket and goes to get himself a fix. It isn’t worth it anyway, slaving away 24/7 for a life that was still crap. God, he wants nothing more to blow his money and get so off his face he can’t even remember his own name.

He remembers the kiss Max pressed to the corner of his lips as they fell asleep last night, the way he looks at him likes he’s the sun, the way he smiles when Mikey comes home, a goofy puppy. He remembers the day they found Oscar, bedraggled and starved, in a trash can, and how the cat winds around his legs when he walks in the door. He remembers every laugh, every tear, every shitty BBC show with ice cream and duvets pulled around them. So he sighs and walks past the alleyway.

He didn’t even remember.

There’s a flash of anger inside him, and he scuffs his sneakers along the pavement, kicking viciously at a crushed can,sending it skidding off the curb and into the road. The sky above is bleak, full of low hanging cloud illuminated by a dying sun.

It’s not like it’s important, not like it’s _special_ to him.

It’s not like it’s a whole year of _them_. Of those smiles and kisses and TV shows. It’s not like it’s a whole year clean, of building a life, of loving someone. It’s not like he was expecting card and cake and dinner with Oscar pawing at his leg for leftovers.

It’s not important.

He regrets not going down the alleyway.

The stairs leading up to the apartment still smell of piss, and it does nothing to improve his mood. He wants to punch something if he didn’t think he’d break his knuckles, and he can feel, lodged at the back of his throat, a scream ready to rip out of him.

It’s not like their 1st anniversary is important.

He tries, up the last flight of stairs, to calm himself. To be proud that he didn’t relapse, didn’t waste the whole year he’s treasuring so much. He tries to smile, to wipe away the hot tears rolling saltily down his cheeks, to pretend, for Max, that everything is ok, that he’s not shrivelling up on the inside. Max has a bad memory, he can’t be blamed. And it’s just another shitty day, one of many, nothing special.

The keys scratch over the lock a few times before he can slot them in, and he twists it painfully slowly, almost unwilling to face whatever lays inside.

The apartment is dark when he walks in, illuminated only by strings of fairy lights, the rooms glowing softly. He steps inside, slinging down his bag and toeing off his worn trainers and he makes his way towards the kitchen.

‘Max?’ His voice wavers slightly, echoing flatly off the walls, and it’s weirdly eerie how quiet everything is, furniture highlighted in neon pinks and blues. There’s a rustle of fabric, and he spins wildly, unsure of what is happening. When long arms wrap firmly around his waist he almost shrieks, before lips press to his neck and murmur, ‘ _Happy Anniversary min elskede_.’ A laugh worms it’s way out of his lips, high pitched and hysterical, a day’s worth of tension flooding out of him as he leans back into the soft warmth of Max’s faded t-shirt. The tears are back before he stop them, blurring his vision and scalding his cheeks, and through them he sees Max’s worried face swim into view, his warm hands burning through the sleeves of his hoodie as he grips Mikey’s arms. It causes him to sob, harder, flinging himself forwards to wrap himself around Max and drown in his comforting presence, pressing his face against his neck as his tears cling to their skin and drip onto their shirts. Max’s hands rub over his back, just like they always do, his hair flopping down to tickle at Mikey’s nose and he laughs again, half choking on sobs.

‘Baby, what’s wrong, why are you crying? Did something happen today at work? Did I do something? Come on don’t cry beautiful, tell me what’s going on.’ Rough thumbs tenderly brush away the wetness slicking his skin, before they tilt his head back.

He’s struck, not for the first time, with how lucky he is to have Max. To have a  _them_  and a _future_.

He coughs to a halt, juddering as his hands still grip frantically at the shitty old Ramones t-shirt with the hole in the left shoulder from that time Max stubbed out his cig in the wrong place. He’s a mess and he knows it, voice croaking out groggily from his throat while his body slumps, overwhelmed.

‘I thought … I t-thought you f-forgot.’ There’s a pause, agonising, and Mikey wonders how stupid he sounds, how childish, getting worked up over _what ifs_ and _could have beens_. But Max just smiles, that big goofy smile, where his hair flops and his eyes crinkle at the corners, and he leans down to press his lips to Mikey’s again, the kiss slow and burning.  _I’m not going anywhere_ , it says,  _I’m here for you rain or shine._

‘As if I could forget the day the most important thing in my life happened, huh? You worry too much, monkey.’ He’s tugged into a hug, tight and suffocating in a good way, before Max leans back and grins again. ‘Now come on, no time for moping. Oscar has a surprise for you.’ Mikey rubs at his eyes, nodding as Max flicks a switch and the apartment lights come on, momentarily too bright on sore eyes. Max grabs one of his hands and leads him, squinting, into the kitchen.

Oscar is sitting on table looking wholly unimpressed, with a miniature party hat on his head. Mikey is almost impressed that Max managed to coax him into it. But the table is what really catches his eye, laden with steaming Chinese, no cashew duck, just the way he likes it. A feast for them. In the middle lays the crowning glory, 16 slightly burnt cupcakes, each painstakingly iced with a wobbly letter.

H A P P Y   A N N I V E R S A R Y it reads, and Mikey wonders how he ever doubted Max. One of the Y’s has a piece of cat hair in it and the V looks like an over eager finger had a taste, but he couldn’t think of anything more perfect. He’s about to thank Max, when a finger is pressed to his lips, a wink thrown his way as a hand reaches into tatty pockets and draws out a small, smooth box. He wants to protest, to say he doesn’t need presents when Max has already done so much for him, when he has failed him in return. But the hands insistently press the box into his, and reluctantly he opens it.

Inside is a small rectangular square made of a gleaming silver metal, set on a chain. A dog tag. He lifts it out carefully, running a thumb over the surface before turning it over. Engraved on the other side is something that makes his heart stop.

_Jeg elsker dig. M._

And Michael knows, without a hint of doubt, that he will wear this until he has it buried with him. Blinking away the blooming tears, because crying for a third time in one night really would be childish, he lurches forwards, wrapping himself around Max, whispering  _I love you, I love you_ , into his ear until his voice is hoarse and the Chinese is probably cold and Oscar has already slunk off, abandoning his party hat.

But perhaps it means, that after all, tomorrow won’t be as shitty.


End file.
